### CHAPTER 9: ARCHER I’ve never been a man to dwell on worries. Not when my very name commands attention, not when the shadow of my presence makes people step aside. My voice has always been enough—a mere snap of my fingers, and things bend to my will. That’s the edge my last name gives me, coupled with the persona I've sculpted tirelessly since childhood. Yet, as the elderly woman at the organ begins to play the soft, haunting notes of the melody Winnie will glide down the aisle to, an unexpected flutter of anxiety grips my chest. For the first time in years, a gnawing unease takes hold of me. Winnie has dominated my thoughts since my departure from her family’s headquarters yesterday. I wouldn't dare confess this to another soul, nor could I confront it within myself—this constant preoccupation that began yesterday morning. If I pretend hard enough, I could almost convince myself that my unease is merely a product of the fact that this stunning woman is about to become my wife. Sharing my life, my space, with another person... it’s a foreign concept and perhaps the reason she occupies my mind more than I’d like to admit. Or maybe it's the exhilarating pull she exerts over me that I’m far too scared to confront. I felt it the instant I chose the most exquisite diamond at the jeweler's—a decision rooted deep within me. Or perhaps it was when I arrived at the church, feeling an irrefutable urge to find her, to reassure myself that she had no lingering doubts about this union. Then the doors swing open, and my breath catches as I see her, standing at the end of the aisle like a vision summoned from my dreams. Winnie clings to her father’s arm, so tightly that I can almost see the strain in her knuckles. But I can’t afford to focus on that; my gaze is irresistibly drawn to her eyes, drowning in the reality of this moment. In the short time since we were alone in the church’s dressing room, she has transformed—her lips adorned with a soft pink gloss, her long red hair delicately pinned beneath a delicate veil. “She’s beautiful,” the priest murmurs beside me, and I bite back the fierce temptation to vocalize my agreement. As I absorb the conflicting emotions crashing against the walls of my mind, it dawns on me: she may well be the most breathtaking woman I have ever laid eyes upon. The tentative smile that flickers across her face as she walks toward me suggests she remains unaware of the effect she has on me. I place my palm against my chest, feeling the weight of unspoken feelings as she and her father share a brief, awkward farewell. Our families—the only witnesses here—sit on opposing sides, exchanging barely a word, while the photographer and Ruby Robinson, the journalist covering our wedding, capture this moment. As the melody ceases, Winnie ascends the steps to the altar. It's only when she halts before me that I realize I should have ushered her to her place. I was too lost in her intoxicating beauty, grappling with why other women have never stirred this flutter in my heart before. We may have only parted moments ago, but now, it feels different—infinitely more real. Perhaps it’s the priest’s voice grounding us, confirming that today, Winnie and I are getting married. Standing opposite one another without any contact feels strangely unnatural. Compelled by the moment, I take her hands, intertwining our fingers. Her hands tremble, and for a split second, it feels like a piercing dagger straight to my heart. I don’t wish to unsettle her, even though I’m in a frenzy of nerves myself. I stare into her eyes, tinged with the delicate veil that hangs between us, when she offers me a reassuring squeeze. Perhaps it was her hands that weren’t shaking, but mine, betraying the fear coursing through me. The thud of my heartbeat reverberates against my eardrums as uncertainty creeps in. Should I call this wedding off before we say our vows? Entering into a phony marriage with a woman who ignites a fire in my chest with just a glance was never part of my plan. The priest prays over us, while I wrestle with the thought of halting this farce before it’s cast in stone. I’m not the type to let anyone under my skin—but as I tighten my grip around her delicate hands, I wonder if Winnie can truly become the one to breach my walls. In my mind, I repeat the mantra that she’s merely significant to me due to her family’s wealth—that our union is just a business arrangement. But good grief, the reality of this wedding feels far too tangible, leaving me disarmed and lost. Before long, we reach the moment for the ring exchange. “If you’re ready, hand me the bands,” the priest intones. “A ring has no beginning and no end, representing the circle of life, the circle of love. May they be given and received as a constant reminder of the vows made today.” I hesitate, reluctantly letting go of one of Winnie’s hands to reach into the hidden pocket of my tuxedo, my fingers brushing against the dainty wedding band I’d chosen for her. In my haste to retrieve it, I completely miss the moment when she slips her thumb ring off. She’s focused intently on the priest while I remain oblivious, consumed by the task of ensuring I don’t drop the ring. I realize, with a jolt, that I’ve been holding her hand so tightly that I hadn’t even noticed the simple gold band resting there. As the priest blesses our wedding bands, he hands me hers with a gentle nod, signaling for me to take her hand. I can feel a tension knotting my stomach as I press her dainty hand against mine once again and position the ring at her fingertip. “Repeat after me,” he instructs, and as I echo the words, I slide the band onto her finger, my heart racing. Before I can think twice, I lift her hand to my lips, kissing the cold metal ring that symbolizes the commitment we’re about to make. Her eyelids flutter closed, and I yearn to know what thoughts swirl through her mind. Is she filled with regret, or is she ready to embrace this act with me? The moment lingers longer than anticipated, my lips brushing against the cool surface of the ring—a reminder of our connection. A camera clicks, nearly jarring me from my reverie, but it’s her blush as she turns toward the photographer that fascinates me further. Winnie recites the same vows I just did, steady as she slips the gold band down my finger. It’s not the time or place, but an urge stirs within me to ask where she obtained it, what it means to her. The wedding mass fades into a blur until the priest, with a jubilant smile, presents us to our audience with authority. "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride." Earlier, I had lifted her veil, its delicate fabric framing her face, and now, as I lean in closer, the world around us fades. Our parents observe, knowing this kiss seals a deal rather than a romantic bond, while others sit in anticipation, hoping for a fairytale moment. I cradle either side of Winnie’s face, her skin impossibly soft against my fingertips. My thumb traces her high cheekbones, and for a fleeting second, I swear she leans into my touch. My heart quickens at the notion of kissing her. “Just do it,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, yet potent enough to ensure I’m the only one who hears her. My gaze drops to her lips, slightly parted, a luscious pink inviting me closer. I lean in, our breaths mingling in the tense space between us. She tilts her head slightly, maximizing the intimacy of our moment, and as our lips meet, she rises onto her toes, steadying herself against my chest. Her lips are so delightfully soft; I find myself lost in the sensation, daring to guide her as her hands grip my shirt, melding our bodies together. The passionate urge overwhelms me, and despite our audience, I pull her closer. Our kiss may be brief, but its impact is electrifying, more powerful than I ever anticipated. The flavor of vanilla glides across my senses, and a craving ignites within me to deepen the kiss, to delve into the depths of whatever this connection might be. But I restrain myself, pulling back only to plant a gentle peck against her lips, savoring the lingering warmth. “I’m delighted to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Archer Moore for the very first time,” the priest proclaims, snapping his Bible shut with a flourish. In a typical wedding, a jubilant cheer would erupt from the guests, a celebration of newfound love, often accompanied by rice or confetti. Yet this moment doesn’t resonate with joy—our union is not predicated on love, and those present know it well. Still, I hold her hand as if it were real, even as we walk down the aisle side by side, offering the photographer a rigid smile, pretending to be the elated groom finally marrying his lovely bride.